


Perception

by Aethelflaed



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Happy Crowley (Good Omens), Holidays, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21973108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed
Summary: At a holiday party, Crowley puzzles over one of the great mysteries of the universe: Why isn't EVERYONE ELSE in love with Aziraphale, too?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 245
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	Perception

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays! Just a quick bit of fluff I wrote a while back when I needed to cheer myself up. Not tied to any of my ongoing projects, not really much depth to it, but I thought someone might enjoy. :)

Crowley loves Aziraphale.

At times with angry frustration- like when he insisted on wearing those absurd antlers to the party - _I can’t believe I’m in love with such an idiot._

Other times with a sort of hopeless joy - like when Aziraphale brushed a hand across Crowley's cheek, soothing his worries, assuring him they would only stay for a few hours and Crowley didn’t have to talk to _anyone_ he didn’t want to. _I can’t believe such a perfect being is in love with me._

But what Crowley can’t understand is how Aziraphale fails to have this effect on everyone else.

How did Renaissance painters not throw their brushes to the ground in frustration, knowing they could never create something so beautifully perfect, so perfectly beautiful?

Aziraphale went to _every one_ of Shakespeare’s plays, yet not a single sonnet was written about him. An absolute crime.

All those humans saw him stand up to Gabriel at the airbase, it was the most _powerful_ and _amazing_ thing that Crowley ever witnessed, he had never been more _in love -_ yet, all those humans were perfectly content to go and marry _each other_.

It didn’t make any sense.

Madame Tracy had Aziraphale _inside her head_ and yet she still settled for Shadwell. Isn’t that just a source of _endless disappointment_?

“Oh, your angel really is a dear,” Tracy admits, shooting a sly smile at where Shadwell sits grumbling into his tea, wearing some form of hideous holiday sweater. “But he really isn’t my type.”

Apparently _utter perfection_ isn’t her type, which makes sense: Shadwell is about as far from that as you can get.

At the other end of the room, Aziraphale listens to Anathema explain an old family recipe for hot cocoa. The look he gives her should be enough to set her on fire; the bliss on his face when he takes a sip from the offered mug would make poets _weep_.

And yet she stands perfectly content with her arm around that useless dork ( _Anathema insisted he saved the world but that must be her memory acting up_ ) and neither of them look ready to abandon the other to spend the rest of their lives worshiping the transcendent being before them.

Newt especially. What could he possibly have ever experienced equal to the sheer joy of Aziraphale’s smile? But there he stands, looking unphased, or rather, as generally phased and lost at sea as he ever did.

Aziraphale turns and walks toward Crowley. The gravity of the room, the world, the universe shifts as its brightest star moves, pulling and reshaping everything in its wake.

And yet the humans fail to notice. The children have barely glanced at any of the adults in the room since opening those plastic robots, and now Adam is directing them to build some kind of space ship out of boxes and random objects. Even the _dog_ doesn’t react.

Aziraphale offers the awful mug covered in cartoon reindeer and snowmen, and a beatific smile that nearly stops Crowley’s heart. “Here, try some of this, my love. It’s absolutely scrummy.”

Crowley is not prepared for the way sheer embarrassment and pure joy blend into ecstasy inside him, and he needs to find an armchair to settle into until everything stops spinning.

“I’m sorry, dear. Is it too much? We can go if you want. I know you don’t like parties.”

Under normal circumstances, this sort of social event would have been a nightmare. The jangly, repetitive music, the smell of pine on everything, the pointless small talk, the constant need to be _normal,_ to _not frighten the humans_.

But with Aziraphale here…there is no place he’d rather be.

“M fine,” he mumbles, trying a sip from the ugly mug. Yes, as delicious as promised. “But I think after this, I’m going to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.”

Aziraphale slides into the chair next to him, and the whole of creation contracts to just that point, warm thighs pressed against his, arm around his waist, wonderful spicy smells, foam antler almost poking him in the eye, kiss lain on his cheek. “That sounds lovely. I think I might join you.”

And somehow, in the presence of all this - the humans go about their lives as if nothing had changed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and happy holidays! :) I'll be back with another "Sawdust of Words" story tomorrow! 
> 
> For those waiting to see my Advent Calender fics...no time to post this morning, but SOON.
> 
> (Comments always appreciated!)


End file.
